


I'm Not Drunk

by lyricalsoul



Series: Mystrade Tumblr Ficlets [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk!Mycroft - Freeform, Humor, M/M, Mycroft knows pop tunes, Mystrade - Established Relationship, crackish, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, over on Tumblr, Anon221b asked for a Drunk!Mycroft fic. Here is it, in all its... well, kinda glory. Be warned: it's cracky, and kinda silly. But still...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Next installment in the Mystrade Ficlets on Tumblr.

*CRASH*

I bolt upright in bed at the loud noise. Blinking at the bedside clock, I note with anger that it’s almost four in the morning, and the other side of the bed is cold and empty.

*CRASH*

Fuck. I yank open the bedside drawer and grab my gun. I don’t know who’s stupid enough to break into the Fortress of Solitude that Mycroft has constructed, but it’s my duty as his husband to defend it while he’s away.

Hoping to hell that I don’t have to use my gun, I creep downstairs to confront the poor sod who will most likely end up in an Antarctic prison.

Nearing the bottom of the stairs, I stop as I see a familiar figure on the floor, grappling with the coat-rack.

“Mycroft?” I hop over the last two steps and hurry to assist him. “What the hell?”

“Get off me, you bugger!” He rolls again, and I see that his sleeve his caught on one of the hooks. “Let me go!”

I put a hand on his arm and stop him. “Easy, tiger… you got him.”

He stops thrashing, and looks at me with bleary eyes. “Gregory?”

“Who else?”

“Well.” He smacks his lips. “Aren’t you going to help me subdue this ruffian who dared enter our home and attack me? That’s bloody unhelpful.” He flails out at his 'attacker' again, and yells, “Unhand me, hooligan!”

“Here.” I dislodge his sleeve from the hook, and set the coat-rack right. “I’ve saved you.”

“My hero,” he giggles, and throws an arm around my shoulder. “You are a very, very lovely man, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Very lovely, indeed. And brave… mustn’t forget brave. Can I see your gun?”

“Mycroft, are you drunk?” I look at him, taking in his bloodshot eyes, flushed cheeks, the horrid smell of cheap vodka on his breath, and the fact that he’s mistaken our coat-rack for an intruder and let out a howl of laughter. “You’re plastered!”

“I most certainly am not plastered,” he protests in the snootiest tone I’ve ever heard. “I matched the… ah…”

“Russians?” I supply, smothering a laugh. The Great Brain, brought low by cheap vodka.

“Yes, the Russians.” He sways a bit. “I matched them drink for drink. They all passed out after the twentieth shot. Twenty-one shots of vodka is a Diogenes record. I am the last man standing.”

“Standing might be a bit ambitious, but I take your point. Did you eat anything while you were matching them shot for shot?”

“Alexei said that eating whilst drinking is for wimps, Gegrory…” He shakes his head. “Gregory.”

“Plastered.” I pull at his coat, wanting to get it off, and him upstairs to the shower. “And you reek.”

He tugs me forward and puts his arms around my neck. “Let’s dance.”

“Mycroft…” I move my feet a bit as he sways from side to side.

“We haven’t danced since our wedding day. Dip me,” he says with a laugh.

“Not tonight, honey,” I say stepping back a bit. “You have a headache.”

He hums a few bars of what sounds suspiciously like ‘Careless Whisper’, and nuzzles my neck. “You smell divine. Soap, shampoo, and that lime cream from your drawer.” He sniffs loudly. “Yes… why are you wearing that? You only… are you going out?”

“At half-four in the morning?”

He frowns. “Lime cream is for seduction. Who are you waiting for? Was it that ruffian who attacked me at the door?” He whirls, looking around wildly. “I’ll kill him if you’ve let him touch you…!”

“Mycroft,” I sigh. “You’re drunk, and paranoid. Can we go upstairs and get you in the shower?”

“Mmm… we’ll talk more on your cheating later, Mister Inspector. I’ll not be toyed with… ooohh… I’m a bit dizzy.”

“Drunk,” I correct.

“Not drunk. And I saved the free world from the Russians.”

“Good. Let’s go celebrate upstairs.”

“Yes. There’s a bed up there.” He laughs. “I am extremely glad that I married you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” He smiles blearily. “There are many, many, many reasons why, but the top two are the most importish.”

“You can tell me upstairs, can’t you?”

“No. I must tell you now. Right here… here and now…” he warbles. “You are nice to Sherlock and he’s… quite contrary… like Mary, quite contrary, how does your… oh. Very bitchy sometimes. That is a very.” He hiccups and kisses my nose. “Very nishe… nice thing to do because no one likes him except that doctor… ah…. Dr. Waddleson. Nice chap, and quite handsome.” He leans in. “You want to know a secret? I think they’re shagging,” he yells into my ear, then nips at the lobe. “And Sher… ah… Sher… my brother used to be a virgin!” He breaks into loud laughter, and slumps against me. “That is hilarious.”

“Obviously,” I say, pushing him back to standing up straight. Well, as straight as he can manage. “Bed now?”

“No, no…” He shakes his head vigorously, sways, then focuses. “A bit dizzy there. Well, as I was saying… two raisins. And number two… hehe… is your gigantic cock.”

“Mycroft!” I blush in spite of myself. “Please.”

“I measured it once while you were asleep. It is quite large.” He slides a hand down the front of my pyjama bottoms. “I love it!”

“Thank you.” I move his hand away, and take a step back. In his state, he’d probably yank it right off. “I’m glad you like it.”

“’s true… ‘s why you swagger when you walk. Too heavy,” he slurs. “Let’s dance!” He whips me around in a circle. “Put on your red shoes and dance the blues…” My hips are tugged against his, and he presses, dipping me back.

“Mycroft…”

“Oh… that’s got me dizzy.” He lets me go, and grabs at his head. “Quite dizzy.”

I steady myself, and catch him just before he crumples. “Come on… let’s get you to the shower and to bed. You’re all in.”

He shrugs my hand off and approaches the stairs with an air of confidence only a drunken sod can manage. “I can most certainly get to the toilet on my own.” With a tug on his waistcoat, he takes a deep breath, and starts up the stairs.

Halfway up, he stumbles, and lands face first on the landing. “Bugger!”

“Fuck.” I hurry up the steps, and kneel beside him. “Come on, you big lug… get up.”

“Can’t. Let me stay here. Right here…”

“Stop singing – you sound horrible.”

“I was offered a recording contract when I was seven. “

“By Benedictine Monks, Mycroft, and then your balls dropped. So yeah.” I pull his arm. “Get up, or you’ll sleep here on the floor. And I’ll take photos, and put them on that website you’ve been trying to shut down…”

He manages to stand up somehow. “I love you Legrory Gregstrade. You are the tops, you’re the cream of the crop…”

I groan, and push him toward the stairs. “Up, Ethel Merman.”

“That’s Crymoft, dear.” He smiles and makes his way up the remaining steps. “As I said, I made it. Not so drunk, am I?”

“We’ll know for sure in a few hours.”

Once in the bedroom, he eyes the room as if he’s never seen it. “This room is quite lovely. The bed is…” flops facedown on said bed, burying his face in his pillow. “Very tired. Could sleep for days.”

“Shower first.”

“Hmm… Lestrade, you are bossy. Bossy, bossy…”

“Gods, if I can stop you singing pop songs, I’d be happy.” I sit down next to his head. “How do you know these songs?”

“I wrote them!” He laughs maniacally. “I write the songs…that…something something cry…”

“Manilow? Oh, just kill me now. Mycroft, please…”

“Why would I kill you? I don’t kill people. I just…” He yawns. “Just… make them sit in my office and look at them until they break. The Ice Man. Works every time. It’s the… something. Eyes, maybe? Am I scary? Oooohhhhh…” He laughs again. “Ice, ice man, baby…”

I don’t like where this is going. “A hot shower, then?”

“Yes, Lestrade… Mycroft and Lestrade… Mystrade…” He hiccups again. “No… LeCroft… oh, we sound so posh and French. Let me have your baguette, LeCroft…”

“Shh…you’re not making sense.”

“I most certainly am,” he protests. “I always make sense.”

“Mostly.”

“Mmm… ‘night, Legory.”

“Mycroft?” I shake him. “Come on…”

He doesn’t budge. Damn it. Out cold. “Fuck.” I slide off the bed, and remove his shoes and socks. He can sleep in the rest – it’s not like he hasn’t before. I take the throw from the end of the bed, and toss it over him. Then I take a seat in the leather recliner in the corner, grab my book, and watch over him until he wakes.


End file.
